Unexpected Beginnings
by GrimmGirl8
Summary: Nervously awaiting the birth of his daughter, John Watson seeks to hold onto his past, only to discover a secret of Sherlock's past, instead. John digs deeper into his friend's past than he had ever cared to know. Will what he discover color his view of his friend forever?
1. Expecting

_January 2015_

Dr. John Watson sat inside the speeding cab, bouncing his leg as he watched London race passed the windows. Finally. After days and days of nothing. _A case._

Before the cab had even come to a full halt, the expectant father had one foot on the pavement. He pulled out his money so hastily that he practically dropped it into the street drain. There's nothing like a case; patching together evidence, finding a suspect, the thrill of the chase. Oh, the chase. John hated to admit it, but he had become almost as addicted to solving cases as Sherlock. Plus, a case would be a much welcome change right now. Just a few moments where he didn't have to think about choosing the right pram, what color to paint the nursery, which brand of nappy was the best…

In his excitement, John found himself practically skipping to the police barricade only to find a tall, thin figure in a long charcoal coat striding toward him. John's step slowed and his face fell has his friend and colleague passed the police line and headed for the street without breaking pace. "John! You were a long time."

"Where are you… You can't possibly have solved it already!"

Consulting detective Sherlock Holmes hailed the cabbie John had just paid, opening the door but pausing to turn back to his blogger. "Mugging gone wrong. The victim's body positioning was merely a consequence of the combination of her severe lumbar hyperlordosis and use of krav maga in self-defense. Sad, really. Grade G-4 like her. She put up a tremendous fight, but five gang members, three with military background, would be too much for anyone."

John sputtered, crest fallen, frantically looking around as though searching the air for a reason for Sherlock to stay. "What… Why not… If we don't catch them, they may do it again…"

"I've given Lestrade all the information he needs to find them. They weren't exactly shy about leaving evidence. Shouldn't take long, even with the Yard's inferior task force."

John continued to scan the air for help, open mouthed, as Sherlock seated himself in the cab. Before closing the door, Sherlock looked up at the distracted doctor. "Don't worry, John. Given Mary's increased cravings for salt and her decreased desire to remain still for long periods of time, it shouldn't be long now. Then you'll never be bored again."

With a quick wink, smile and click of the mouth, Sherlock closed the door and the cab sped away, leaving John standing on the curb, wondering what exactly had just happened.

When John had regained his ability to keep a single thought in his head for more than three seconds, he was overcome with the singular desire to punch something. With a renewed sense of purpose, he made a 180 degree turn. He strode toward the police line with such ferocity as to frighten the rookies guarding it. Bursting passed the barrier, John approached a silver haired man whose back was to the street.

"Greg Lestrade, you bastard!"

The man so named jumped at the sound of the sharp tone in which his moniker was uttered. John secretly relished the small sign of fear exhibited by the Detective Inspector. Greg turned slowly, smiling with as little guilt as he could muster. "I'm sorry, John, I did try…"

"You promised! 'This is it, John. There's no way he'll solve this one in less than a week!'"

"Yes, well, I may have overestimated the timeline, slightly…"

"Fifteen bloody minutes!"

"Actually, he only arrived about six minutes before you did," a small voice near Lestrade's knee uttered.

"Yes, thank you very much, Anderson!"

John began sputtering and looking about the night sky again. A comforting hand braced John's shoulder, bringing his focus back to the planet Earth. "You need to relax, John. Take some time. Find something to distract yourself between now and when the baby's born."

"How bloody thick… That's what I'm trying to do!"

With a deep sigh, Greg frowned, releasing John's shoulder. "Go home, John. Have a cold beer and enjoy the silence of a child free home while you still can. You don't need any more excitement than you already have. Alright?"

With a pat on the back and a small smile, Greg turned back to his colleagues, leaving the good doctor to silently fume at the back of the detective's head.

As John turned back reluctantly, wondering exactly how long it would take to hail another cab, he became mildly aware that his vision had blurred with disappointment. It wasn't about being distracted from what was coming. He had made peace with that long ago. In truth, he was genuinely excited about becoming a father. It's something he had secretly wanted for a long time, convinced he could do the job better than his father. No, it was about having one more big case, one last hurrah. Before everything changed, forever. Before he became responsible for more than just the lives of a beautifully mysterious ex-CIA operative and a slender high-functioning sociopath. As if that wasn't difficult enough.

As he stood on the curb, lost in thought, he caught sight of something sitting in the alley across the street. For a second, John saw the person and the motorbike as being a single, black figure. It was the briefest of moments, as a lorry chose that instant to illegally park along the road, blocking the alley from view. Later, John would recall the black leather clad rider as being much taller and more threatening. For now, however, he almost immediately dismissed the incident, counting his good fortune that a cab had just slowed to a halt in front of him.

...

Over the next several days, John's mood continued to spiral downward. No cases, no clients, not one single murder. His faith in the inevitable foulness of the human race was beginning to wane. Where was the scum of the Earth when he needed them most?

He found any opportunity to leave the increasingly small flat, making multiple runs to different shops in opposite parts of town. John also seemed to have lost all concept of how to get around London. Frequently, he missed his stops on the tube leaving him blocks from his destination, or chosen to take a cab in bad traffic when walking would have been quicker, or chosen to walk blocks out of his way rather than taking the hundreds of short-cuts he now knew by heart (thanks to Sherlock).

This absent mindedness wasn't out of malice or discourtesy. Hell, it wasn't even intentional. It was John's thoughts taking complete control of his brain, causing him to lose all concept of time and space. His mind never seemed to stop and settle on a single thought for more than a few seconds. Everything from names to child-care to health concerns. Bouncing from one subject to another like the worst pinball game in history. How does Sherlock do this without going stark raving mad? On second thought…

More often than not, John found himself stopped in front of consulting detective's door on Baker Street. For what could have been hours, he did nothing but just stare at the door, never entering. That wonderful, familiar door. There was something very comforting about the dark wood stain, the friendly bronze 221B, the welcoming heavy knocker. Perfect in all it's imperfections. Every knick, every splinter, a badge of honor. It had endured countless angry banging fists, couple of police raids, several break-ins and one explosion. Yet, here it stood. Steadfast and unchanging. It was here, and only here, that John's mind would quite to a slow turn.

It was here that he saw the leather clad motorbike rider for the second time. What caught his interest most was the fact that as the rider sped away, the helmet turned. He couldn't be sure with the tinted guard, but John could have sworn he was the focus of the attention.

John only looked away when a small buzz emitted from his pocket. "Did you get lost again? Your tea is getting cold."

...

John ran almost the entire way to the crime scene. He stood so close to the doors of the tube that they almost closed on his nose. When he reached his final stop, he took the stairs 3 at a time. Please, please, please let this be it! She could be any day now. Just one more!

John nearly screamed when he saw Sherlock walking towards him once more.

"No, not again! There has to be something you missed!"

"John..."

"A hair, a fiber, an ash burn!"

"John..."

"Do the thing where you figure out that the victim has been in Peru and had mob ties putting the very fate of Britain at risk!"

"John! Relax! We have a case!"

With those words, a weight that had not left John's shoulders for over 3 weeks, lifted. He suddenly felt his spine straighten, bringing him to his full, albeit short, height. He didn't hear a word said to him all the way back to the street. He was so elated that he started to follow Sherlock into the waiting cab, before a friendly voice caused him to look up.

"Opposite sides of town, John."

John stared blankly at his friend, slowly comprehending what had just been said. "Oh, yes, of course. Silly me."

"Go home, John. Kiss Mary and get some sleep. I have some experiments tonight and then we'll start first thing in the morning. Don't be late!"

"Not on your life!" With no small amount of glee, he shut the cab door, giving the top a louder than necessary pat. John's smile lingered long after the cab had disappeared from site.

As he looked away, trying to spy another cab, a now familiar site caught John's attention. In a matter of milliseconds, every hair on the back of John's neck was raised.

This time, however, there was no mistaking the piercing eyes behind a tinted visor, taking in every inch of John. That steadfast, hidden, menacing gaze. It was a threat. It was unnerving. It was an invitation. An invitation which John accepted.

With a deep breath, John suddenly felt every fiber of his being shift. Every muscle became tensed, every nerve aware, every sense heightened. Suddenly, it was Afghanistan all over again. That sense of impending danger and the unparalleled desire for survival. With a final deep breath to solidify this warrior state, John bellowed into the dark.

"Oi, you! What are you gacking at?"

Before waiting for a reply, John bolted across the street toward the alley, nearly being struck twice by passing cars. As the driver of a fiat cused him out, the rider remounted the motorbike, speeding down the alley and turning a corner.

Fueled by adrenaline, John raced into the alley, nearly tripping over rubbish that didn't quite make it to the bins. He was overcome with a mixture of curiosity and fear. Who was this ghost? Why did they keep following him? Why, on Earth, did it excite him so bloody much?

John skidded to a halt as he rounded the corner, only to find that the specktor had stopped halfway down the service road and turned to face him. Driven by the rush of a half block sprint and the fear of the unknown, John found himself breathing heavily and with great volume. Before being able to find his voice which was brimming with questions, the figure dismounted the bike, causing John to tense with anticipation.

With a mighty flourish, the black clad rider removed the matching helmet, revealing a cascade of chocolate locks.

"So, you must be the famous John Watson. We meet at last."


	2. Rude Awakening

_June 2009_

Sherlock lay face down on top of the unkempt bed, surrounded by dozens of loose leaf pages which spilled onto the floor. The small flat was barely lit by one high window. Daylight poured threw, hardly defused by the thin off white curtain. Suddenly, A loud banging rang out, causing the consulting detective to move for the first time in ten hours. Without removing his face from the comforter, he let out a low groan of protest. The banging continued, more loudly and with greater speed. Sherlock groaned again, this time titling his head slightly as to half uncover his mouth.

"WHAT?!"

"Open up, Holmes! I'll not ask you again!"

"You've not asked a first time!"

"OPEN THE BLOODY DOOR!"

Placing both palms flat on the bed near his shoulders, Sherlock pushed himself up with great effort. Now on his knees, he stretched his back like a cat, then rolled across the bed and papers, planting his feet onto the floor. Despite his drowsy state and half open eyes, Sherlock crossed the flat being careful to avoid the mass amounts of clutter littering the floor. Making no effort to do so quickly, Sherlock unlocked the door, but did not remove the chain. Through the small sliver of light Sherlock could now see the short, fat, angry man standing on the other side.

"How may I be of assistance?"

"You haven't paid me yet!"

"That would be because I don't have any money."

"That's the fourth time in as many months!"

"Very astute observation."

"And what the bloody hell is that bloody smell?!"

"You really shouldn't use as much vulgarity as you do, you know. You're not very good at it."

"Let me in!"

"No."

"I am your landlord! I have rights!"

"I am your lodger. As do I."

"LET! ME! IN!"

With three great tries, the hefty landlord shoved his way into the tiny flat, shattering the chain into several pieces.

"I assume you'll not be taking that out of my deposit?"

"Heh! You lost that when you let mice loose in the flat!"

"That was an experiment to test..."

But the landlord wasn't listening. He was now staring wild eyed at a pile of rubbish that seemed to be moving.

"...oh that. Yes, well, that experiment did go a bit unruly..."

"It's molding."

"Well, it's mold. It will tend to do that."

"Out."

"Sorry?"

"Get. Out. NOW. I'm evicting you, effective immediately! You have 6 hours to pack up your... things and get out!"

"Law dictates that I have 24 hours to..."

"KEEP PUSHING AND IT'LL BE 3!"

With as much speed and ferocity as he could muster, Sherlock bolted across the room toward the landlord. Using a very long pale arm, he shoved the small man into the opposing wall. The force and shock knocked the wind out of the landlord who now looked up in fear at his towering and surprisingly strong tennant. Continuing his trend of speaking in a calm, yet meaningful, voice, Sherlock spoke.

"I can think of 17 different ways to paralyze you from the neck down using only objects that are currently within my arm's reach. Now, we can do an experiment to see how much damage I can inflict on you with a throw pillow, or you can give me the full 24 hours and I will be out of your hair forever. What will it be?"

The man now white as a sheet took a loud gulp and spoke so softly that Sherlock had to strain to hear him.

"Twenty... Twenty four hours. Then I'm calling the police."

Sherlock released the man who then took off like a shot through the still open door. Sherlock looked after him as he sped down the hall before slamming the door closed. Flopping back onto the bed, Sherlock sent several papers flying which then lazily floated onto the floor. He had almost returned to sleep when a loud knocking once again rang around the room. With now what could only be described as anger, Sherlock lept from the bed, flinging open the door.

"What, back for seconds?!"

As the door flew open, however, a slender silver haired man stood in the doorway. A small smirk was crossing his lips as he spoke.

"Not sure what you're referring to, but I think I'll pass."

"Lestrade. Your here. Which means there's been another one. Different this time?"

"Yes. Sorry, can I come in? There is a very angry man staring at me from down the hall."

Sherlock walked back into to flat, leaving the door open for Lestrade who closed it behind himself. Sherlock casually started picking up papers from the floor and throwing them into an even more disheveled pile. Lestrade looked around the room with a slight look of disgust creeping across his face. He tried to hide the look when Sherlock turned, but he should have known better.

"So, the case, there's something new this time?"

"Yes, but can we discuss it on the way? I've got the cab waiting."

"Cab? Why did you get a cab? You normally just take the... Oh."

Sudden and crushing realization came over Sherlock's face.

"Look, it's for your own good. The Yard thinks I'm crazy enough as it is, bringing you in. You could at least help me out by..."

"I'm fine! You hear me? It doesn't affect the work. It doesn't affect my mind! Everything else is..."

"Transport, yes, I know. But it does affect how others see you..."

"If I cared how others saw me..."

"...and that affects how you help is perceived. Trust me, people will listen to you more if you're..."

Lestrade paused to gesture at Sherlock, making a sweeping hand gesture in his direction, up and down the length of his body. Sherlock glared at the detective inspector, then began rummaging around the floor for something.

"What about this?"

Sherlock slipped a stained and wrinkled hoodie over the t-shirt and pajamas he had just been sleeping in.

"Not good enough."

"Then I'm not going!"

Sherlock sunk back into the bed like a petulant child. He glared at his slippers intensely as Lestrade looked on.

"You asked what's different about this case. The victim?"

Lestrade bent slightly to try and catch Sherlock's reaction to the next phrase. He was not disappointed.

"She's still alive."


	3. More Questions Than Answers

_January 2015_

John stood in the narrow alley facing the leather bond motorbike rider he had been chasing. He stood stock still and to his full height, trying not to betray the fact that his heart was still beating out of his chest. Where he had just been overcome with a mix of mounting fear and curiosity, he was now suddenly struck by astonishment. Astonished that the rider had stopped. Astonished that the rider had confronted him. Astonished that she… was a she. The leather bike suit had done a wonderful job of concealing the rider's gender which, John thought hastily, was probably the point.

John struggled to regain his thoughts as he scanned the stranger before him. Now that he had a proper look, he had no idea how he could have ever mistaken the figure for being anything other than female. She stood in a pose as to perfectly accent her newly revealed femininity. Every curve and line of the constricting black leather was in perfect grace with every other. The zipper on the top of her suit was undone just enough to give a hint a cleavage which was accented by a pendant dangling just at its crest. Her perfectly mussed hair fell gracefully, framing her stern, but perfectly pouted, face. Her eyes burned with golden flecks which seemed to pierce John's very flesh.

John took a hard gulp, closing his eyes briefly, subconsciously turning the ring on his left hand. With a deep breath that seemed to take a lifetime, he regained his composure, and subsequently, his anger. "Who the bloody hell are you and how do you know my name?"

"Now, Doctor Watson, I don't really think that's very important, do you? Not the question you really want to ask, anyway."

Taking another hard gulp, John took a deep breath. He tried his best to remain calm as Afghanistan continued to pulse in his ears. "Why have you been following me?"

"Because I needed to ask you something and I didn't want to be overheard doing it."

John was taken aback, and slightly disappointed, by the simplicity of the truth. However, his curiosity would not abate. "Well, go on, then. You've gone through this much trouble. Spit it out."

"Such a vulgar term. As if words were poison, or something horrid to be expelled."

"Get on with it!"

The woman took a deep breath, as if daring the silence to drag on any longer. John looked on, waiting eagerly for a resolve.

"Your colleague, Sherlock Holmes…"

Of course it was about Sherlock. When was anything like this not about Sherlock? John's spine bristled, causing him to stand even straighter, ready for anything…

"... is he sober?"

… Except that. John was so astounded by the question that he actually fell backward slightly. Sherlock's drug use wasn't exactly common knowledge, even after the Magnussen thing. Besides, the incidents had been so few and far between that John had actually almost forgotten about it. The first time he'd even heard that it might be an issue he was in disbelief for days, even when it had been confirmed by Sherlock himself. Since that time, it had only ever come up a couple of times, either being passively mentioned or actively not mentioned. In fact, the only time John had seen it first hand, Sherlock had insisted it had been for a case. Flimsy excuse, but to Sherlock, there was no greater reason.

John stared at the stranger, still perplexed by the entire situation. When he finally did find his voice again, it was somewhat broken and stammering.

"I'm sorry, I have no idea what you're talking about. I don't know who told you..."

"You really shouldn't lie, Dr. Watson. You're rubbish at it."

"I'm not... Sherlock Holmes is one of the most revered and sought after consultants in the world..."

"Who has a long history of drug abuse because of it. You don't need to pretend otherwise, I have first hand knowledge of the fact. Now please, answer the question. I've not got all night."

Rage built in the army doctor. Questions and their possible answers whizzed around his brain like rockets.

"How... If you think... If you have something to ask Sherlock, you can ask him yourself!"

"Yes, but seeing as the answer determines whether or not I speak to him..."

"Yes, of course he's sober. I've never known him otherwise..."

"Lie."

John sputtered again. His fists were now closed so tightly that his palms stung with the pressure of his fingernails.

"He is sober."

"Yes, but for how long? Two years?"

John remained silent.

"One year?"

Again, John simply stared at his tormentor.

"Less than a year."

John removed his eyes from the woman for the briefest of seconds before he'd realized he'd done so.

"Ah. So, how many months? 11? 10? 9? 8?"

"Look, if you're just going to stand there reciting numbers, then I'm..."

"8 months it is, then."

John wildly looked around the air open mouthed. How? How did she... But John had known Sherlock for too long to really wonder "how." He'd given up his best friend simply by reacting. Now more angry with himself than anything else, John placed his hand over his mouth, subconsciously preventing himself from saying anything else damaging.

"Thank you, Doctor Watson, you've been most informative."

With a head whip, leg kick and roaring sound, the woman was once again helmeted and back on her bike. John watched in mild horror as she sped down the alleyway.

...

John sat in his chair, staring blankly at his dinner plate. Mary had been talking for nearly ten minutes without a single word of it penetrating his consciousness. He simply stirred his broccoli around his plate like a merry-go-round from a toddler's worst nightmare.

"So, then I told him that he could have our daughter as soon as she was born if only he could turn all of the straw into gold."

John gave a small grunt of acknowledgement without looking up. Suddenly, John was aware that his wife was sliding his plate of food away from his gaze.

"John!"

"Um? Yes, I'm sorry, love. You were saying something about... Straw?"

As John looked at Mary, he suddenly felt very bad indeed. Her face read all of the disappointment in the world that he had not been paying attention.

"I'm sorry. Truly. It's just this case..."

"Yes, you haven't said two words about it! I thought you'd be brimming now that you finally had one. But instead you act as though someone's taken your toys away from you."

John took Mary's hand in his. Looking deeply into those lovely, familiar eyes, John wanted to tell her everything. And nothing. He knew what she'd say. Tell him he needed to tell Sherlock immediately, ask him why he hadn't done so already. Why hadn't he told Sherlock? Maybe because he wanted a mystery of his own to solve. Maybe out of some weird punishment for Sherlock for putting him in that position in the first place. Maybe because he didn't think Sherlock would tell him the truth if he asked. And he desperately wanted the truth.

Mary cocked her head to the side, still staring back at John. John felt the question she wasn't asking. Felt her watching the gears turning in his head. John shook off the thoughts, physically as well as metaphorically.

"I'm sorry, it's just... This case. I thought it's what I wanted, but now I just feel... I'm sorry. I was being rude. What were you saying?"

Mary stared for a couple more seconds, then continued her story. She didn't mention John's obvious lie, and for that, he was grateful.


End file.
